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"You don't have to go," Neil had said weeks ago. "I know how you feel about planes. And you don't like Uncle Stuart. But he invited me. It's his graduation present, so I've gotta go, but you don't have to. And, uh, it might interfere with your summer training camp schedule anyway. So...you don't have to come. But you can, you know, if you want. I have two tickets."
Neil took a breath and then looked as if he was going to keep rambling. "I'll go."
"Really?"
He really should be immune to those fucking eyes after all these years.
"Hatford family reunion." Andrew smiled. "I can't wait." As if he would really leave Neil in the care of his abusive mother's family. As if he trusted them any more than the Wesninski's. What a laugh.
That's why he was here, in London. He had suffered through four days of awkward family dinners and some really pathetic attempts at manipulation for people who claimed to run half of Europe.
On day five, dear Uncle Stu drove them to the British Olympic Association headquarters and they were given some gear and court time. And like always, the idiot turned into an even bigger idiot when someone placed an exy racquet in his hand. He ran around doing his drills happy as a fucking clam not noticing or caring about all the people timing and writing on their little clipboards.
Andrew had heard whispers of exy becoming an Olympic event within a few years, but he hadn't thought it would happen so soon. He hadn't thought the Hatford's would go this far to keep Neil.
Andrew left the net and walked over to where Stuart was talking to Chester von Borington (or whatever his name was) on the far side of the court. Dear Uncle Stu's nose flared like it smelled something gross, the way it always did when Andrew was around. Andrew had made something of a game of it, seeing how many times he could get Stuart to make that face in a day--fourteen was the record.
"Neil is an American citizen."
"So?" Andrew shrugged and Stuart scowled. "His mother is English."
"And you can keep him under your thumb better if he's here training eight months of the year."
"I'm not trying to control him. I'm trying to protect him."
Andrew spread his arms wide and put on a mocking smile. "And you've done a marvelous job so far." Andrew took a step closer into his space. "You didn't protect him when he was a child and his father took a knife to him, when his mother beat him, or when he was all alone, but you want to swoop in now like a deus ex machina after everything is done? Fuck that. And fuck you."
"Andrew." The voice was quiet, but not soft, beside him. Neil with his stupid eyes and hair and legs. He held out one hand in a silent yes or no? Andrew twined their fingers together, like the Fates pulling strings
"Abram, you know--"
"Uncle Stuart, you know that I appreciate everything you have done for me. I appreciate you creating the opportunity for some playing time and being able to reconnect with family. But Andrew is my family too." Neil squeezed his hand. "Don't try to force me to choose between you and him, because you won't like the answer."
"Understood," Stuart said with a sad smile.
Neil used his grip on Andrew to drag him back toward the goal.
"That was probably the most diplomatic I've ever heard you."
Neil smiled that stupid smile that made Andrew want to kiss him or kill him. "Yeah, well, you'd already told him to fuck off. One of us had to be polite."
"You're not playing for England."
Neil lined up his shot. "You just don't want to go against me at the Olympics."
"Silver would clash would your hair."
"It would look so pretty with yours."
"Fuck off, Josten." Andrew said as he sent the shot back toward Neil's feet.